Complete Works of Bram Stoker (27 page)

“Augh! there’s room for wan more! I’m tould there’s wan missin’ since ere yistherday.” It was no good trying to beat Andy at this game, so I gave it up and sat silent. After a while he asked me: “Will I be dhrivin’ yer ‘an’r over to Knockcalltecrore?” “Why do you ask me?” “I’m thinking it’s glad yer’an’r will be to see Miss Norah.”

“Upon my soul, Andy, you are too bad. A joke is a joke, but there are limits to it; and I don’t let any man joke with me when I prefer not. If you want to talk of your Miss Norah, go and talk to Mr. Sutherland about her. He’s there everyday and can make use of your aid. Why on earth do you single me out as your father-confessor? You’re unfair to the girl, after all, for if I ever do see her I’m prepared to hate her.” “Ah! yer ‘an’r wouldn’t be that hard! What harrum has the poor crathur done thatye’d hate her  —  a thing no mortial man iver done yit?” “Oh, go on! don’t bother me any more; I think it’s about time we were getting home. You go down to the sheebeen and rattle up that old corn-crake of yours; I’ll come down presently and see how the work goes on.” He went off, but came back as usual; I could have thrown something at him. “Take me advice, surr: pay a visit to Shleenanaher, an’ see Miss Norah,” and he hurried down the hill. His going did me no good; no one came, and after a lingering glance around, and noting the gathering of the rain clouds, I descended the hill. When I got up on the car I was not at all in a talkative humor, and said but little to the group surrounding me. I heard Andy account for it to them: “Whisht! don’t notice his ‘anVs silence! It’s stupid wid shmokin’ he is. He lit no less norsiventeen cigars this blessed day. Ax the neighbors av ye doubt me. Gee up!”

The evening was spent with Dick as the last had been. I knew that he had seen his girl; he knew that I had not seen mine, but neither had anything to tell. Before parting he told me that he expected to shortly finish his work at Knockcalltecrore, and asked me if I would come over. “Do come,” he said, when I expressed a doubt; “do come, I may want a witness;” so I promised to go. Andy had on his best suit, and a clean wash, when he met us smiling in the early morning. “Look at him,” I said; “wouldn’t you know he was going to meet his best girl?” “Begor,” he answered, “mayhap we’ll all do that same!” It was only ten o’clock when we arrived at Knockcalltecrore, and went up the boreen to Murdock’s new farm. The Gombeen Man was standing at the gate with his watch in his hand. When we came up, he said: “I feared you would be late. It’s just conthract time now. Hadn’t ye betther say good-bye to your frind an’ git to work? “ He was so transparently inclined to be rude, and possibly to pick a quarrel, that I whispered a warning to Dick. To my great satisfaction he whispered back: “I see he wants to quarrel; nothing in the world will make me lose temper to-day.” Then he took out his pocket-book, searched for and found a folded paper. Opening this he read: ‘“and the said Richard Sutherland shall be at liberty to make use of such assistant as he may choose or appoint whensoever he may wish during the said engagement at his own expense.’ You see, Mr. Murdock, I am quite within the four walls of the agreement, and exercise my right. I now tell you formally that Mr. Arthur Severn has kindly undertaken to assist me for to-day.” Murdock glared at him for a minute, and then opened the gate and said:

“Come in, gintlemin.” We entered. “Now, Mr. Murdock!” said Dick, briskly, “what do you wish done to-day? Shall we make further examination of the bog where the iron indication is, or shall we finish the survey of the rest of the land?”

“Finish the rough survey.” The operation was much less complicated than when we had examined the bog. We simply “quartered” the land, as the constabulary say when they make search for hidden arms; and taking it bit by bit, passed the magnet over its surface. We had the usual finds of nails, horseshoes, and scrap-iron, but no result of importance. The last place we examined was the house. It was a much better built and more roomy structure than the one he had left. It was not, however, like the other, built on a rock, but in a sheltered hollow. Dick pointed out this to me, and remarked: “I don’t know but that Joyce is better off, all told, in the exchange. I wouldn’t care myself to live in a house built in a place like this, and directly in the track of the bog.”

“Not even,” said I, “if Norah was living in it too?” “Ah, that’s another thing. With Norah I’d take my chance, and live in the bog itself, if I could get no other place.” When this happened our day’s work was nearly done, and very soon we took our leave for the evening, Murdock saying, as I thought, rather offensively: “Now, you, sir, be sure to be here in time on Monday morning.”

“All right,” said Dick, nonchalantly; and we passed out.

In the boreen he said to me: “Let us stroll up this way, Art,” and we walked up the hill towards Joyce’s house, Murdock coming down to his gate and looking at us. When we came to Joyce’s gate we stopped. There was no sign of Norah; but Joyce himself stood at his door. I was opening the gate when he came forward.

“Good-evening, Mr. Joyce,” said I. “How is your arm? I hope quite well by this time. Perhaps you don’t remember me. I had the pleasure of giving you a seat up here in my car, from Mrs. Kelligan’s, the night of the storm.” “I remember well,” he said; “and I was thankful to you, for I was in trouble that night; it’s all done now.” And he looked round the land with a sneer, and then he looked yearningly towards his old farm. “Let me introduce myfriend, Mr. Sutherland,” said I. “I ax yer pardon, sir, an’ I don’t wish to be rude; but I don’t want to know him. He’s no frind to me and mine!”

Dick’s honest, manly face grew red with shame. I thought he was going to say something angrily, so cut in as quickly as I could: “You are sadly mistaken, Mr. Joyce; Dick Sutherland is too good a gentleman to do wrong to you or any man. How can you think such a thing?” “A man what consorts wid me enemy can be no frind of mine!”

“But he doesn’t consort with him; he hates him. He was simply engaged to make certain investigations for him as a scientific man. Why, I don’t suppose you yourself hate Murdock more than Dick does.” “Thin I ax yer pardon, sir,” said Joyce. “I like to wrong no man, an’ I’m glad to be set right.”

Things were going admirably, and we were all beginning to feel at ease, when we saw Andy approach. I groaned in spirit; Andy was gradually taking shape to me as an evil genius. He approached, and making his best bow, said:

“Fine evenin’, Misther Joyce. I hope yerarrum is betther; an’ how is Miss Norah?” “Thank ye kindly, Andy; both me arm and the girl’s well.” “Is she widin?” “No; she wint this mornin’ to stay over Monday in the convent. Poor girl, she’s broken-hearted, lavin’ her home and gettin’ settled here. I med the changin’ as light for her as I could; but weemin takes things to heart more nor min does, an’ that’s bad enough, God knows!” “Thrue for ye,” said Andy. “This gintleman here, Mashter Art, says he hasn’t seen her since the night she met us below in the dark.” “I hope,” said Joyce, “you’ll look in and see us, if you’re in these parts, sir, whin she comes back. I know she thought a dale of your kindness to me that night.” “I’ll be here for some days, and I’ll certainly come, if I may.”

“And I hope I may come, too, Mr. Joyce,” said Dick, “now that you know me.”

“Ye’ll be welkim, sir.” We all shook hands, coming away; but as we turned to go home, at the gate we had a surprise. There, in the boreen, stood Murdock, livid with fury. He attacked Dick with a tirade of the utmost virulence. He called him every name he could lay his tongue to  —  traitor, liar, thief, and, indeed, exhausted the whole terminology of abuse, and accused him of stealing his secrets and of betraying his trust. Dick bore the ordeal splendidly; he never turned a hair, but calmly went on smoking his cigar. When Murdock had somewhat exhausted himself and stopped, he said, calmly:

“My good fellow, now that your ill-manners are exhausted, perhaps you will tell me what it is all about?”

Whereupon Murdock opened again the phials of his wrath. This time he dragged us all into it  —  I had been brought in as a spy, to help in betraying him, and Joyce had suborned him to the act of treachery. For myself I fired up at once, and would have struck him, only Dick had laid his hand on me, and in a whisper cautioned me to desist. “Easy, old man, easy! Don’t spoil a good position. What does it matter what a man like that can say? Give him rope enough; we’ll have our turn in time, don’t fear!” I held back, but unfortunately Joyce pressed forward. He had his say pretty plainly.

“What do ye mane, ye ill-tongued scoundhrel, comin’ here to make a quarrel? Why don’t ye shtay on the land you have robbed from me, and lave us alone? I am not like these gintlemen here, that can afford to hould their tongues and despise ye; I’m a man like yerself, though I hope I’m not the wolf that ye are  —  fattenin’ on the blood of the poor! How dare you say I suborned any one  —  me that never told a lie, or done a dirty thing in me life? I tell you, Murtagh Murdock, I put my mark upon ye once  —  I see it now comin’ up white through the red of yer passion! Don’t provoke me further, or I’ll put another mark on ye that ye’ll carry to yer grave!”

No one said a word more. Murdock moved off and entered his own house; Dick and I said “good-night” to Joyce again, and went down the boreen.

CHAPTER IX

 
The following week was a time to me of absolute bitterness. I went each day to Knocknacar, where the cutting was proceeding at a rapid rate. I haunted the hilltop, but without the slightest result. Dick had walked over with me on Sunday, and had been rejoiced at the progress made; he said that if all went well we could about Friday next actually cut into the bog. Already there was a distinct infiltration through the cutting, and we discussed the best means to achieve the last few feet of the work so as not in any way to endanger the safety of the men worki ng. All this time Dick was in good spirits. His meeting with Norah’s father had taken a great and harrowing weight off his mind, and to him all things were now possible in the future. He tried his best to console me for my disappointment. He was full of hope  —  indeed he refused to see anything but a delay, and I could see that in his secret heart he was not altogether sorry that my love affair had received a temporary check. This belief was emphasised by the tendency of certain of his remarks to the effect that marriages between persons of unequal social status were inadvisable  —  he, dear old fellow, seemingly in his transparent honesty unaware that he was laying himself out with all his power to violate his own principles.

But all the time I was simply heart-broken. To say that I was consumed with a burning anxiety would be to understate the matter; I was simply in a fever. I could neither eat nor sleep satisfactorily, and, sleeping or waking, my brain was in a whirl of doubts, conjectures, fears, and hopes. The most difficult part to bear was my utter inability to do anything. I could not proclaim my love or my loss on the hill-top; I did not know where to make inquiries, and I had no idea who to inquire for. I did not even like to tell Dick the full extent of my woes. Love has a modesty of its own, whose lines are boldly drawn, and whose rules are stern. On more than one occasion I left the hotel secretly  —  after having ostensibly retired for the night  —  and wended my way to Knocknacar. As I passed through the sleeping country I heard the dogs bark in the cottages as I went by, but little other sound I ever heard except the booming of the distant sea. On more than one of these occasions I was drenched with rain, for the weather had now become thoroughly unsettled. But I heeded it not; indeed the physical discomfort  —  when I felt it  —  was in some measure an anodyne to the torture of my restless soul. I always managed to get back before daylight, so as to avoid any questioning. After three or four days, however, the “boots” of the hotel began evidently to notice the state of my clothes and boots, and ventured to speak to me. He cautioned me against going out too much alone at night, as there were two dangers: one from the moonlighters who now and again raided the district, and who, being composed of the scum of the country-side  —  ”corner-boys” and loafers of all kinds  —  would be only too glad to find an unexpected victim to rob; and the other, lest in wandering about I should get into trouble with the police under suspicion of being one of these very ruffians.

The latter difficulty seemed to me to be even more obnoxious than the former; and to avoid any suspicion I thought it best to make my night wanderings known to all. Accordingly, I asked Mrs. Keating to have some milk and bread and butter left in my room each night, as I would probably require something after my late walk. When she expressed surprise as to my movements, I told her that I was making a study of the beauty of the country by night, and was much interested in moonlight effects. This last was an unhappy setting forth of my desires, for it went round in a whisper among the servants and others outside the hotel, until at last it reached the ears of an astute Ulster-born policeman, from whom I was much surprised to receive a visit one morning. I asked him to what the honor was due.

His answer spoke for itself: “From information received, A come to talk till ye regardin’ the interest ye profess to take in moonlichtin’.”

“What on earth do you mean?” I asked. “A hear ye’re a stranger in these parts; an’ as ye might take away a wrong impression weth ye, A thenk it ma duty to tell ye that the people round here are nothin’ more nor less than leears, an’ that ye mustn’t believe a single word they say.”

“Really,” said I, “I am quite in the dark. Do try and explain. Tell me what it is all about.” “Why, A larn that ye’re always out at nicht all over the country, and that ye’ve openly told people here that ye’re interested in moonlichtin’.”

“My dear sir, some one is quite mad. I never said such a thing  —  indeed, I don’t know anything about moonlighting.”

“Then why do ye go out at nicht?”

“Simply to see the country at night  —  to look at the views  —  to enjoy the effects of moonlight.” “There ye are, ye see  —  ye enjoy the moonlicht effect.”

“Good lord! I mean the view  —  the purely aesthetic effect  —  the chiaroscuro  —  the pretty pictures!”